


you're a real tough cookie (with a long history)

by fanficloverme96



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, James bond likes to flirt, M/M, at least, likes to give people things too, to Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficloverme96/pseuds/fanficloverme96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ONE-SHOT: “Just be careful,” she advises. “As long as you’re pretty and alive, Bond will hit on you at any chance he gets.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're a real tough cookie (with a long history)

Q knows what he is getting himself into when he is assigned as Bond’s Quartermaster.

He has heard of the rumors; well, they are not rumors if they are true. He has seen through the files many times, memorized the whole biography until he even knows what Bond’s favorite drink is (Vesper martini, shaken not stirred).

He has seen the look on Moneypenny’s face when he first told her about it. That cleverly concealed (but Q, being Q, can still see it pretty well) pity with a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Just be careful,” she advises. “As long as you’re pretty and alive, Bond will hit on you at any chance he gets.”

“I’ll ignore him, then,” he says simply.

Moneypenny shakes her head and sighs. “I wish you luck.”

Q sees her off in silence, and wonders if facing agent 007 would really be that troublesome.

* * *

Q finds that he is, to some extent.

For one thing, he hardly returns the weapons and gadgets given to him all in one piece. Q understands damages, but ten guns in five days are too much. He needs to put his foot down at some point.

“007, despite of what you may think, MI-6 is not made of money,” he says one day, staring at the rifle which has been snapped into half. “They come from sources and if you keep on destroying the things we give you, you’ll find yourself only equipped with a toy gun in the near future.”

“Can it be an exploding toy gun with light beams?” Seeing the look on Q’s face, Bond holds up his hands in defense. “It’s either the weapons or me.”

“One of these days, M might consider sacrificing you instead,” Q answers calmly as he shuffles through his files. Bond pretends to look wounded.

“And who’s going to return you the weapons if I’m gone?” he replies. “And besides,” he adds, sitting at the edge of Q’s desk, peering at him with the corner of his lips lifted. “Won’t you miss me?”

Attempt number one.

Q scoffs.

“Hardly,” he says. “Out.”

Bond complies, a smirk playing on his lips. Q decides to ignore him.

* * *

Attempt number two comes a week later.

Bond is on a mission in India, sent to retrieve a very important file from a certain group of people who are famous for their underground activities (Bond never bothers with the specific details and M could not care less if he does so long as the job is done).

He is shaving; the razor blade just an inch away from his skin, when he hears the knock on the door.

“Good evening, 007,” greets Q as he strides into the room as soon as Bond opens it, ignoring the gun pointed at his face. “You have shaving cream on your face.”

“I was shaving,” 007 says dryly, wiping off the said shaving cream off his face. “What are you doing here, Q?”

“Here.” Q tosses a folder to Bond, a tiny smile playing on his lips when Bond catches it effortlessly. “Your targets have unexpectedly moved to China. You won’t find them here. Further instructions are in the folder.”

Bond groans. “Time has wasted yet again.” He looks at Q, who is busying himself with the paintings on the wall. A sudden twinkle appears in his eyes. “Well…I might as well enjoy my time here for the time being.”

Bond may be quick, but Q is the smarter one out of the two.

Smoothly, he evades Bond’s attempt to drag him down onto the bed, giving the agent a light smirk before flicking his forehead.

“Finish up your shaving and go to sleep, 007,” he says diplomatically. “You’ll need it.”

“Don’t you want some company, Q? Being alone in foreign country, isn’t that scary?” Bond asks teasingly.

“You keep forgetting that I have the power to potentially destroy a country literally at the tip of my fingers,” Q answers calmly, pausing by the doorway to look at Bond. “Being alone is hardly a concern.”

“No, but it is rather sad.”

Q shuts the door behind him a tad bit louder.

* * *

Bond wastes no time with attempt number three.

It is exactly a few weeks later, when Bond recently finished a mission in Spain. It is supposed to be his off-day, but Q finds him walking into the Q-branch that day anyway. He resists the urge to sigh heavily; instead, he focuses on his computer screen.

He is startled, however, when a rose is suddenly placed in front of him. He looks at it in a quizzing manner for a moment before looking up at Bond.

The man is grinning.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Q,” he says.

Q blinks and checks the calendar. February 14.

But of course.

“That’s very nice of you, 007,” Q adjusts the spectacles perched on his nose. “But these types of gifts are usually for women.”

“Would you rather have an exploding pen, then?” Bond replies with a slight twitch on his lips.

Q rolls his eyes. “I would not want something I could make.” He picks up the rose, anyway and puts it in an empty vase that sits on his desk (another present from Bond, bought in Hawaii). “Thank you regardless.”

Bond straightens his posture and smiles. “You're very welcome, Q.” He walks to the front entrance and pauses to look at Q, the smile still on his face. “And for the record, Valentine’s Day is just an excuse to get you some flowers. Roses suit you.”

And then he leaves. Q takes a deep breath and spends the rest of his day trying to tell himself that James Bond is not the reason why his heart has strangely begun to beat faster.

Nope. Not at all.

* * *

The fourth attempt is on Q’s birthday.

How Bond even knows (no, of course he knows, this is the MI-6, after all) about it in the first place honestly surprises Q. He himself has a hard time remembering his own birthday half the time.

He wakes up in his apartment early in the morning. He gets up from the bed and pads into the kitchen. The first thing he sees is a blue box, wrapped with a green ribbon. He blinks repeatedly, unsure whether the box is just a figment of his imagination.

When he assures himself that the box is real, he takes a cautious step towards it. He sees his name written on a card that has been taped on the lid.

He recognizes that loopy handwriting.

_Happy Birthday, you self-centered bastard._

Inside the box is a sweater; it has a checkered design of green and black. The material feels soft underneath Q’s fingers. The man smiles.

“Thank you,” he whispers to himself in the quietness of his apartment.

He will deal with the issue of Bond breaking into his apartment later.

* * *

Q finds himself waiting for the fifth attempt.

It finally comes two months later but it is not anything obvious as the last four attempts. Bond is brought in injured; three shots in the chest with a few broken bones, and Q visits him in the infirmary, taking in the sight in front of him.

Bond is topless, his chest fully bandaged and his right arm is in a sling. His face is covered with black and blue bruises. There is dried blood on his split lips.

“Oh, Q,” Bond rasps, his voice still hoarse. “Nice of you to visit.”

“You look terrible,” Q deadpans. He sits on the chair next to the bed.

“One can hardly escape from a gang fight and remain unscathed,” Bond replies coolly, wincing a little at the pain in his chest.

Q merely hums in acknowledgement. He plays with the edge of his sweater absently. He has come here with one purpose only; to check on Bond. Now that he has assured himself that Bond is alive and in one piece, he has no idea what to do anymore.

But it would be weird to leave when he just arrived barely five minutes ago.

So he sits there, contenting himself by looking out of the window.

There is a soft, comfortable silence. Q does not know how, but when he finds himself opening his eyes, he knows from the darkening sky that he has fallen asleep. And someone took off his spectacles. He blinks repeatedly.

He turns to Bond, who is also fast asleep. As he about to get up, something falls off his shoulder. It is a green woolen blanket. He looks at it blankly.

Reaching out for his spectacles, he sees a note underneath it.

_Sleeping in my company. Am I really that boring?_

Q allows himself to smile a little. He folds the paper in half and scribbles something on it hastily before walking out of the room.

_Not at all._

The workload on his table does not bother him in the slightest that day.

* * *

Q only has one attempt. Except…

It is not an attempt.

M has given him orders yet again to send Bond a file that requires Q to go all the way to Canada this time. The file contains of the information of a well-known terrorist group that has chosen to reside there this past few weeks.

Q nearly laughs at the irony. Canada, of all places. But he admits that it is a smart move; given the low crime rate, no one would suspect.

“Low is not non-existent, Q,” argues Bond a few hours later in the hotel room; small but comfortable enough for two. “It is a smart move, but not too hard to stop.”

“I never said it was,” Q answers in a tone akin to boredom.

Bond walks across the room and Q’s eyes follow him. Bond, being Bond, notices.

“What are you looking at?” he asks anyway.

“I think…” Q’s voice is soft. “The real question is ‘who’, not ‘what’.” He looks at Bond from underneath his eyelashes.

There is a long, drawn pause.

Bond steps forward. There is a glint in his eyes; hungry, predatory, _want_ , _take_ ….

Love.

And then they are kissing; with teeth and tongue and moans and fingers tugging in Q’s hair and soft whispers.

Q’s feels the soft mattress underneath and briefly wonders how they got onto the bed, but the feeling of Bond’s lips on his neck and collarbone is distracting enough that he does not care.

Instead, he arches his back and welcomes the pleasure the runs through him.

* * *

 

There are no more attempts from that day onwards.

Bond acts like a normal agent.

Q acts like a Quartermaster should.

“What did you do to him?” Eve (They are now friendly enough to refer each other by their first names; at least, for her. Q almost forgets his name at times.) wonders that one afternoon. “He has not flirted with anyone for weeks.”

Q sips his tea calmly. “What makes you think I have anything to do with it?”

Across the room, Bond gives him a knowing look. Q answers with a smirk as he drinks his tea.

Eve looks on with confusion.

“What’s so funny?”

**Author's Note:**

> yeah yeah, I know it's nearly christmas and I should be writing a fic about christmas, but this has been sitting in my docs for days. XD


End file.
